


'tis but a scratch

by gaywoodandbine



Series: tumblr prompts [2]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sick Character, Sickfic, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 22:06:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18536389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaywoodandbine/pseuds/gaywoodandbine
Summary: Magnus's life was so much simpler when he didn't have to deal with stubborn Shadowhunters.(or, Alec Lightwood is a terrible patient and probably wouldn't appreciate Monty Python.)





	'tis but a scratch

**Author's Note:**

> [cuddling while someone's sick](http://gaywoodandbine.tumblr.com/post/184323991002) for [intezaarlily](http://heronstairslover.tumblr.com)

Magnus steps through swirling gold and into the familiar warmth and scent of home. A desert wind pushes against his back, bringing with it a last lingering scent of jasmine and rose before the portal snaps closed again. Sweat still prickles at the nape of his neck, and he gives a small ruffle of his jacket collar to shake a bit of sand out of its creases before slipping it off his shoulders. Not exactly his most successful trip to Tinghir, but he managed to come back with the herbs he needed, so it’s not a total loss. 

He sets the parcel down on a side table, draping his jacket across the back of a chair as he steps further into the apartment. The lights are turned low, he notices, and the television is on. Flashes of color dart across a mound of blankets spread across the sofa, and he tilts his head in bemused curiosity. 

He’s positive that wasn’t there when he left in the morning. There’s really only one explanation for it, but a quick glance at the clock tells him it’s not nearly late enough for Alec to be finished with work. Approaching slowly, he leans over the arm of the couch and peers into the depths of the pile to the muffled sound of a laugh track. 

“Alexander?”

The mound of blankets grunts.

“… Are you okay?”

There’s a very pregnant pause, and then the mound of blankets shifts. Alec’s dark hair pokes out from the edge of a knitted one that he’s fairly sure Ragnor had gifted him. It slides a little lower and hazel-eyes finally make an appearance, staring blearily up at Magnus. They’re a little glassy, if he’s honest. 

“My god, you’re sick.”

Even Alec’s silence is a little judgmental, but he eventually answers, voice rougher and lower than normal.

“No, I’m not.”

Alec looks adorably disgruntled. It’s a valiant struggle, but Magnus manages not to laugh. His big bad Shadowhunter laid low by a cold. 

“I didn’t even know Shadowhunters _could_ get sick. The power of your righteousness doesn’t fend off germs? Don’t you have some sort of angelic immune system that prevents you from contracting most diseases? Because that seems like an oversight on Raziel’s part if he created this warrior race that’s the world’s last defense against evil, and they have to take a day off because they’ve got the sniffles.”

Alec’s glare is withering, and the blanket slowly starts to make its way back up to cover his face as he tries to hold in a cough. Magnus isn’t sure if he’s trying to prove a point, but it doesn’t do much of anything except make him turn an interesting shade of red, entire body jerking beneath the covers. 

“A little less snark would be nice,” Alec wheezes out a second later.

Magnus bites his lip though it does nothing to tame his delighted smile. He reaches out to card his fingers through Alec’s hair, “I’m sorry, my love. That was mean of me. Have you had anything to eat today?”

Alec’s eyes narrow, though it’s a wonder he can see that way with how watery they are. He seems to be gauging whether this question is a lead in to another smartass response, but eventually, he mumbles, “M’not hungry.”

“You really should get a little food into your stomach. I could make you something. Or get you something. There’s an excellent soup I had in Mumbai years ago. The spices are perfect for a cold.”

Alec shakes his head, eyes sliding closed, “Later. M’too tired, now.”

Magnus nods, pushing Alec’s hair back away from his forehead and quickly feeling for any signs of a fever. Alec gives a grateful little moan at the cool touch of his palm.

“Come on,” Magnus urges, keeping his voice soft as he gives a little tug on Alec’s shirt, “Let’s, at least, get you to bed.” 

It’s a fight of a few minutes to get Alec out from beneath the layers of covers he buried himself in, but when he finally stands, he leans into Magnus with a sigh. He smells of stale sweat, and there’s a congested sound when he breathes that suggests only one nostril is working properly, at the moment. 

“Honestly, Alexander, I’m shocked you let yourself come home early.”

There isn’t an answer, and when Magnus looks up, Alec is studiously keeping his focus on the trek to their bedroom.

“Isabelle bullied you into leaving, didn’t she?”

It’s not really a question, and Alec huffs in reply, which soon turns into another coughing fit. Magnus halts their progress, pushing against Alec’s weight as he leans a little too far to one side. 

When Alec gets himself under control again, he clears his throat and says, “I’m fine. She’s being ridiculous.”

Magnus rolls his eyes. Alec could have an arm cut off, and he’d probably say it’s just a flesh wound.

When he, finally, gets Alec shoved into their bed, the look on Alec’s face as he sinks into the cool sheets is downright blissful. He’ll probably be freezing again and asking for more blankets in another hour, but for now, he looks comfortable. 

Magnus takes a step back, but Alec’s hand shoots out, faster than he would have imagined given how groggy he still is, to grab hold of his wrist, keeping him in place. 

“Stay?”

Sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, Magnus reaches out to cup Alec’s face, thumb sweeping across his cheekbone, “I won’t be long. There’s a potion I want to whip up. It’ll make you feel better.”

Magnus could, if he wanted to, heal Alec altogether, but there’s something to be said about acquired immunity. Magnus tries not to mess with biology unless he has to.

Alec’s already having trouble keeping his eyes open, but he shakes his head and mumbles, “M’fine. Just stay with me.”

“You are not fine, you stubborn Nephilim,” Magnus laughs.

His laughter seems to please Alec, though, and it gets the first smile out of him that Magnus has seen all night. 

“Alright, I’m sick. Happy?” Alec croaks out, still smiling. 

“Not remotely,” Magnus says, leaning in to kiss his sweaty forehead, “But if it will make _you_ happy, I’ll stay.”

Alec nods, eyes slipping closed again, and Magnus gets up to get changed into more comfortable clothes. When he slides into bed beside him, Alec immediately turns, body curling into Magnus’s and his head finding a place on his shoulder.

Alec’s hair is oily and unwashed, smelling a bit of that same stale sickness, but Magnus presses his nose to it, anyway. 

“Tell me about where you went,” Alec mumbles into his collarbone. 

So, Magnus wraps an arm around Alec to keep him close and talks. He tells him about his brief visit with the High Warlock of Marrakech, and his hunt for some necessary herbs in the oasis of Tinghir, of the local Seelie population who guard it. He describes the brutal beauty of the Sahara and promises they’ll visit when Alec’s feeling better.

Eventually, when Alec is asleep, he’ll get up and make that potion to ease some of his symptoms, fix some soup that will be gentle on his stomach. But for now, he’s content to be here, tracing his fingers over the black of the runes on Alec’s arm.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://gaywoodandbine.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/gaywoodandbine) if you'd like to come find me


End file.
